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From Indigo Inertia to Sparkling Sativa

I was still wary of pot when I first moved to S.F. Too many cough-inducing drags off too many huge blunts in college left me a little gun-shy of getting high, and after half a dozen instances of lying on my dorm bed for hours while the room spun and I felt like death, I became one of those people who thought, “Meh, maybe weed’s just not for me.”

But then, I was gently introduced to the various strains of marijuana by kind, smiling San Francisco stoners who would — when I turned down a bowl over fears of hallucinating after one hit — hand me a cute, unintimidating indica-filled vape pen.

I became an indica girl — like an Indigo Girl, but even more chill. “It’s great!” I’d tell my also-weed-wary girlfriends, suddenly an all-knowing pot connoisseur. “You just need to find the right kind.”

Despite my bravado, the idea of dispensaries and all their options and lines and systems intimidated me, so when I first got my medical- marijuana card I dipped my toe into the world with a friendly app: FlowKana. Within an hour of placing my order a sweet, smiling, friendly guy in nice leather shoes showed up at my front door and talked me through what I’d purchased. It was almost too easy, and I was totally hooked. After that, it took me four months to even set foot in a physical shop.

Candy Jack

So when FlowKana dropped off some samples for us to try — one indica, one sativa — I took both, but let the Candy Jack sativa gather dust on my dresser. “I’m an indica girl,” I happily told myself as I packed a bowl of Relax Zkittlez, an indica-dominant strain. I took a couple hits, and three hours later was still sitting on the floor watching the Great British Baking Show. I had to pee. The dog needed to pee. But it was too much work to move. I was too relaxed.

Stubborn, I kept smoking the stuff. For days I’d sleep in past my alarm clock, and wake up feeling like my head was full of cotton wool.

“It’s the weed,” my boyfriend kept saying. I ignored him because hello, I was an indica girl, but in the middle of an episode of Fargo one night he handed me a packed bowl, and I took a hit. When the show was done I cleaned the whole kitchen like a fiend.

“See, it’s not the weed,” I told him triumphantly, as I stood on the kitchen counter scrubbing the ceiling light fixtures. He silently handed me the jar of sativa.

I get it now, this marijuana thing. The mystery of how people got high and went dancing, or out in public at all, has been solved. My new hobby: smoke a bowl and magic eraser the hell out of my bathroom. I’m a sativa girl now, and my house? It’s goddamn sparkling.